The Ugly Truth Pt. 2

[This excerpt is part of a two-part recollection of a few experiences I had during my encounter with cancer. There are two other writings in my collection that preface this excerpt. The first: A Wrench in the Works and the second: The Ugly Truth Pt. 1]

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The first week of Chemo was a very confusing time. It was frightening because I had no clue what to expect. Other than my grandpa, who bore his suffering very quietly as stubborn as he was, I'd never even known anyone who had cancer. I had no one to talk to about what was going to happen and how it would make me feel. Not knowing what to expect was more terrifying to me than the Lymphoma that was plaguing my body. 

 A portacath is catheter that is threaded through the vein until it reaches a large vein near the heart. It is used as an alternative to having to draw blood or administer harsh medications through your veins. It was inserted under the skin and is connected to a rubber marble-sized ball positioned on the right side of my chest about 6 inches below my collarbone. To draw blood or to infuse the chemo, a special IV needle is inserted into the rubber ball through the surface of the skin. This is an easy solution to IV's and Chemo injections when the veins begin to deteriorate from the chemo and prevents multiple IV "sticks" with the needle.

DECEMBER 11, 2009

Before this experience, I had never been admitted to a hospital (that I can remember). I was very nervous on the day of my surgery as I waited in the prep room. I removed all of my clothing from the waist up and slipped into my surgery gown and climbed back into bed. The nurse pulled back the curtain and, after raising the arms on the bed so I couldn't roll off, pushed me into the operating room. 

There were several nurses scurrying around the room preparing instruments and washing hands when I entered the room. On the count of 3, they hoisted me up from the hospital bed to the cold, flat operating table. They pulled my shirt down and began swabbing the area on my chest on the right side. 

The anesthesiologist rolled over on a stool very close to my left side, opposite the other operating room nurses. She seemed very nice and made me feel a little more comfortable as she began to describe what was going to happen and what I should expect. She explained that she was currently giving me some medicine that would make me feel very sleepy and I would likely fall asleep before I got the chance to meet doctor. However, this was not the case. He walked in and asked the anesthesiologist if she had begun giving me my medicine and she confirmed that she had begun the process. He seemed in a hurry and anxious to get this over with and it made me very uneasy. I could feel my eyelids get heavy as I watched him frantically wash his hands at a sink to my right and ready himself for the surgery. 

I was still conscious when he began making the incision in my chest. I wondered if I was having a nightmare when I felt the scalpel slice into my skin. I began to cry. I had never been more afraid of anything in my entire life. Why wasn't he stopping? 

"That hurts!" I cried out through my sobs. He continued the surgery and without hesitation barked at the anesthesiologist, "She's crying. Can you do something about that?" and went back about his business. To my left I heard someone whispering my name. I looked toward the voice to discover the anesthesiologist that had proved to somewhat of a comfort to me a few moments prior. 

"Julia, tell me about your girlfriend. She says you guys have a dog, what is his name?" She asked me to talk with her and I did for a few seconds before the cooling sensation of the drugs kicked in. . .

I woke up in the prep room and to my immediate relief, Carley was there. I was overcome with emotion and I starting to cry again. I recounted the events of my first surgery to her as she looked at me in awe. Neither of us knew how to react or what to do about the situation. As if I didn't have enough reasons to be frightened.

---

Similar to many procedures in the medical field, this device seemed to cause as many problems as it offered solutions.

I could feel the medicine enter the catheter and make its way up to the connection to the vein right above my collar bone on the right side of my neck. Sometimes, depending on the drug, I could almost taste the medicine in the back on my throat which proved to be quite interesting.

It got infected on 3 separate occasions during my 6 month chemotherapy regiment. One morning, after waking up from sleeping on my chest, I discovered that there was a 2-3 inch red area around the area of the portacath. In a matter of a few hours, it had caused the entire half of my chest and breast to swell almost twice the size. The surface of my skin was hot and itchy. I had a hard time sitting because the weight of my breast was pulling so hard on the infected area around the portacath. Laying on my chest was clearly out of the option and not only from the pain. The swelling was so significant that arranging myself on my chest would have caused me lay at a 45 degree angle not unlike the effect you would achieve sitting on two balloons filled to different sizes.

The horse-pill antibiotics I was expected to take didn't do anything in the way of helping my nausea. The pills were literally the same size as my first pinky digit and I was instructed to take them 3 times daily. My oncologist was concerned that my vomiting was too intense to accommodate this pill schedule and it was back to the Hospital for a 3 day weekend getaway.

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DECEMBER 14, 2009

We headed to the clinic early on Monday morning and a small group of my friends and family sat with me in the silent lobby. The installation of my porticath was only the day before and was still very sore.

We were welcomed into the "Chemo Room" which consisted of a large room outlined by large recliners, IV pumps, juice and snacks, and nurses in white jackets. 

I walked to the end of the row and positioned myself in a large recliner near the end of the line and kicked my feet up. The nurse sat down on a stool and wheeled her way to the side of my arm chair. She explained that I would be receiving 4 separate drugs. 3 of the drugs could be administered via IV and should take about 30 minutes each. The 4th drug was blood red and needed to be given to me extra slowly, through a syringe by a nurse at my side. This was the most powerful drug and can often cause complications including hot flashes, nausea, and burning sensations. Holy hell I thought to myself but what I looked up, smiled, and said to my family was "Bring it on!" This would not be the last time I expressed the exact opposite of how I felt. Though it is ever spoken about or even requested by the people in your life when you have cancer, there is a huge pressure to be positive. If you look afraid, everyone else will be 10x more terrified.

When you begin your day with chemotherapy, anything else that day just seems fairly pointless. However, we attempted to continue right on the way we had before. I went to bed that night feeling pretty normal. It was really, really strange. I expected to feel the effects immediately. I half expected my hair to stand straight up and fall out all at once, similar to the effect you would get from blowing on a dandelion wishy flower.

Tuesday: Nothing to report
Wednesday: Nothing to report
Thursday: Nothing to report
Friday: Shit hits the fan.

Carley had come home late from work when the pain in my legs started. I had felt fine an hour or two ago but I was getting very sore, very quickly. She massaged my calves, which helped a little, but it started spreading rapidly. It was spreading up to my knees and eventually my hips. The pain was nearly unbearable as it continued creeping up my back and settled hard in each of my shoulders. I ran into the bathroom and turned the shower on hot. Thankfully at that time we had the type of shower you find in retirement homes; it had a built-in seat, plenty of safety handles, and a handheld showerhead. I was out of my mind with pain and I pulled the showerhead down so I could soak my knees in attempt to ease the pain. It wasn't working and I turned the water even hotter. My skin began to turn red before I finally decided this method was fruitless. I stumbled out of the shower and managed to dry myself off. I felt my eyes roll back in my head as I closed my eyes and fell back onto my bed. We didn't have a car at the time and I wasn't sure where I would have driven if I did have a vehicle. All I knew, as the tingling pain spread up my neck and along my bottom jaw, is that staying home was not going to work for me. I felt drunk in the respect that I could barely gather my thoughts. I started sweating through my tee shirt and I pulled the covers up around my neck to keep me warm. Maybe it wasn't chemo, maybe it was some horrible version of the flu.

Carley sat next to me on the bed and put her hand on my back. I heard her faintly as if she were whispering to me from across the room, "Let's go to the doctor......." I opened and closed my eyes several times, rubbing my aching elbows and knee caps. I didn't have the energy or ability to answer her. I remember throwing up and having Carley help me downstairs and into a car.

Waiting in the lobby of the Emergency Room came to be more unbearable than walking into my chemotherapy appointments. As I doubled over in pain, a hundred nurses continued to prod me with questions and badger me about details concerning my condition, medications, doctors, last visit to the hospital, occupation, insurance and my head spun in circles and Carley did her best to provide them with the answers they pestered me for.

My body had been totally consumed by the pain 2 hours later when I was finally admitted to a room. My anxiety rose as the attending nurse pulled out her How-To manual for using a portacath. "Great," I thought. I talked her through it using all the knowledge I'd acquired during my whole 1 time of using it. This would also mark one of the 10,000 times I saw Carley bitch-slapping nurses with her eyes over the next 6 months. Worse than a protective momma bear, Car was not afraid to let nurses know when they were not providing the care that I deserved.

As the dilaudid entered my IV, it grabbed me by the shoulders and instantly removed the stress from the muscles around my neck. It warmed my body like a hug from an old familiar friend. I could feel it racing through my veins and providing instantaneous relief as it traveled down my arms to my lower back and . . .

A few days later, I was released from the hospital. We had started to manage my vomiting and pain and I had been taking medicine orally for 24 hours. What I quickly realized is that my body required a 1-2 day recovery period after my hospital stays. The day I was released from the hospital was the eve of Christmas Eve. My family agreed to come up to my house for Christmas (celebrated on Christmas Eve) in case I wasn't up to traveling. Grandma was making my favorite dessert in the entire world which is a Jello-whipped cream-cream cheese pretzel-shortbread parfait. I know that sounds weird, just trust me. Its epic and it very rarely rears its little head, even at holidays. Though I hadn't eaten in the last two days, I choked down a small bowl of oatmeal that morning and was feeling pretty confident that I would be able to handle the dessert, in small portions of course.

Nope. 

I felt good for about an hour on Christmas Eve, just long enough to hold my 2-month-old nephew for 15 seconds before he began crying, screaming, and pooping. I spent most of the day kicked back in my arm chair, forcing a smile the best I could but secretly wishing I was upstairs enjoying a good medical marijuana knockout nap.

---- ( Chemo #2, #3) ---

By my fourth chemo treatment, we had gotten into a bit of ruitine which  made things a little less fightening, I suppose, but it at least helped us plan out our weeks. 

The schedule, like clockwork, was as follows:

Monday: Chemo
Tuesday: No report
Wednesday: Pain in jaw, radiates to neck and knees
Thursday: Bad nausea, pain spreads, Emergency room by 11:00pm
Friday: Hospital
Saturday: Hospital
Sunday: Hospital
Monday: Back Home
Tuesday: Recover from Hospital Stay
Wednesday: Recover from Hospital Stay
Thursday: Feeling like a 6 (Scale 1-horrible 10-picture of health)
Friday: Feeling like a 7
Saturday: Feeling like an 7.5
Sunday: Feeling like a 7.51
Monday: Chemo


Rinse and Repeat.

MORE TO FOLLOW:
Dilaudid - How many pain pills is too many? Stop asking me "Do you remember...?"

Constipation - Which enima will work more effectively; oil or water?

Food - I could eat this every meal everyday for the rest of my life - True or False?

Nurses - Who knows more about how to treat me...you or me?

Vomit - get f*cking used to it.

End Bullying

It has been said that I don't care about any one thing enough to move me to protest or participate in a movement to support a cause. Well ok, I might have said that. And, it's mostly true. It is primarily because I am a lazy person by nature but I believe  it has a lot to do with the fact that I believe in governing my own life and don't rely on other people to set rules for me. As long as you're willing to accept the consequences, I think everyone should do what makes them happy. However it would take very little effort to persuade me to rally against bullying, especially the bullying of gay youth. I think that people tend to tune out when someone says we need to "End Bullying" for several reasons but I attribute the main reason is because they've never experienced it first hand. Some people also believe that a little bit of bullying makes you stronger or that if you can't handle it, it makes you weak.

Some people, you know who you are, walk through life with very few complications. Its not a bad thing. Some people  are favored with wealth, good looks, luck, talent, smarts, power, or other blessings that make life a little easier. They very rarely meet any opposition and when they do, they have the support system to overcome it. This is definitely not the story of many, especially those struggling with the acceptance of their heterosexual friends and family members. We aren't blaming you, but we are asking for your help because we can't do it alone.

These aren't stories of people with blank faces. They are the lives of are our friends, kids, nephews, nieces, brothers, sisters, and cousins and they are hurting. If you haven't experienced bullying affecting you or your loved ones, don't wait for it to find you because it will. For those who aren't as lucky, their story is harder to tell.  

Its important to remember that each word we speak means something and you never know how your words can affect someone. You are not the only person dealing with stress and sadness and there is no way of knowing what someone else is going through. If we keep that in mind, we're likely to be much more sensitive to the people we come in contact with. Once you put something out there in the universe, you can't take it back and I would hate for any of us to live with regret. Try to limit your sarcasm and "just joking" comments. I know I am as guilty as anyone but I have honestly made a huge change this year on how I speak to the people in my life. I wasn't always aware of how much my words could hurt until my first year of high school.

I'm not proud of the story I'm about to tell you but as attempt to do my part to end bullying, I think I will share it now. This is an example of how the bullied are not the weak ones. (

I changed the names in this story so if there is any correlation to anyone with these names, it is purely a coincidence.)

The person in this story has both haunted and inspired me since I met him. Clay and I were in mostly the same classes because we forecasted into the same advanced education track in middle school. There were about 25 of us that had almost the exact same schedule for 6th, 7th, and 8th grade. Many of these students were "popular," smart, good looking, wealthy, and athletic. They were the student government, sports teams, leadership class, royalty of the school age.

Though my personality has generally allowed me to blend in to most social situations, this has not always afforded me the best of friendships, especially when I was younger. I didn't care so much that I had common interests as long as I was mostly accepted and fairly well liked. Technically these people were my friends by I hardly consider myself as one of these "beautiful" people. Even then, I didn't feel like I was fitting in and I was probably the reason I was so miserable to other people. Even subconsciously, I must have figured that if I pointed out people who fit in less than I did, no one would notice I didn't belong here either.

Visually, Clay was definitely a sore thumb in the group. He was shorter than average, heavyset, and dressed in secondhand clothes. He had dirty blonde hair which he wore in a disheveled bowl cut usually tucked up onto a tattered Yellow Stone Park baseball hat. His skin was pale and littered with freckles on his arms and face. He usually wore plain brightly colored tee shirts, mis-matched gym shorts, white tennis shoes (a size or two too large), and gym socks pulled up mid-calf.

He distinctively waddled from side to side as he walked, always shuffling frantically about from class to class, clutching his notebook to his chest, staring down at the floor in front of him. Because he kept his eyes fixated on the ground in front of him, he would often bump into people passing him in the hallway which would elicite commented like "Watch where you're going, fat ass," from numerous students on a daily basis. We would mock him as he passed by our lockers saying "He's late, he's late, he's late for a very important date," then, clutching our own binders to our chests, imitated him waddling down the hallway in the manner that he was famous for.

He didn't usually speak up, but when he did, he had a very scratchy and high pitched voice that did not fit his large stature. If he was brave enough to raise his hand to answer a question from our teacher, the roomed echoed with our snickering and silenced squeals of laughter. We would do what we could to exclude him from group projects and it even resulted in him having to partner with one of our teachers from time to time. When he did partner up with a few of the guys in the class, they always gave him the female roles telling him that he was the most "feminine" and should be in charge of the "girl stuff."

Even band class offered no relief for Clay. He played the flute and was the only male in a flute chair. The teacher would say "Ok, ladies, let's take it from the top," without correcting himself when referring to the flute section and his students were not afraid to follow in his footsteps. His large build would cause him to sit forward and awkwardly hold his flute by resting his elbow on his stomach. It didn't go unnoticed by the other students in our class, especially the other boys, who would try to imitate this by sitting forward on their chairs, holding their instruments slightly askew, stating that they were “playing Clay-style.”

The bullying continued incessantly for 6th-8th grade. Obviously we knew that it isn't nice to tease people or make fun but I don't think we really realized the impact we were making in Clay's daily life.

When we returned to school for our Freshman year, I didn’t even recognize Clay at first. Rumors flourished through the halls about him and his new look. It was in the last class of the day when I had my first sighting of him. He had grown a few inches over the summer and lost a significant amount of weight. It was obvious that he had been working out because he his arms and legs were toned. Though he had clearly developed his own style, he still wore his clothes baggy as if he wasn’t accustomed to his new physique. His hair was cut short and styled well. He walked upright instead of hunched over, and looked straight forward into our faces as he strutted down the hallways.  He had finally managed get the kinks out of his squeaky voice and now he spoke in deep, steady tones with a new kind of confidence.

A combination of “What I Did this Summer” essays, gossip, and an anti-bullying presentation Clay delivered to the middle school, gave a pretty eye-opening look at what caused the change in Clay's demeanor and appearance.

He coordinated with the principle of our old middle school to spread the word about bullies to the incoming 8th grade class. He stood on a empty, undecorated stage at a pulpit in front of a single microphone to deliver his message. He clicked his stack of papers on the wooden pulpit nervously a few times and it echoed around the celiing in the silent auditorium. He seemed slightly nervous but he cleared his throat and told his story without falter.

He explained that after enduring hurtful comments and ridicule from the students in his classes, on most days, Clay walked almost 5 miles home to stop at the food bank on his way home. Because thee school bus wouldn't drop him anywhere but his home address and his mother was not able to leave her home or drive, these types of basic household chores fell to him.  He lived with his mother in a run-down one bedroom home. Clay slept on a cot in the corner of the main dining area, partitioned off by old ratty sheets. The only bedroom in the home, and the location of the only bathroom, belonged to his mother. She had been battling terminal brain cancer for a few years and was resigned to her bed. She had lost some of her motor functions and due to the family’s low income, Clay was his mother’s sole caregiver. They were able to pay a nurse to administer her chemo therapy twice a month but Clay was trained to give her any other IV medications, prescriptions, and grooming she required.

His father committed suicide a few years prior from alcoholism that eventually lead to a severe depression. He shot himself in the family's only vehicle, an old rusty Chevy station wagon, and was found by his unsuspecting 10-year-old son, Clay, one day after school.

He told everyone about how hard it was for him to stay positive. Every day, he came home, headed straight to his "room," and cried into his pillow. He stared into the mirror stretching out his chubby cheeks at different angles to thin out his face. He glanced down at his dingy wardrobe and pictured what he might look like in a fresh new suit with matching hat with shiny black shoes. He would daydream of busting through the front doors of the school and wow-ing everyone with his snazzy pinstripes, jaws would drop to the floor as he strutted down the hall. He looked back into the mirror and watched  the tears streamed down his pale freckled face as he realized he hated the boy in front of him.  He wondered if there was anyone who didn't hate him. He tried to think of anyone who might miss him if he weren't around and seriously considered killing himself. He thought that if his first 13 years were this miserable, he didn't want to stick around to see what other hands fate might deal him.

It was that particular time in his life when he decided that he didn't want these other people to dictate the way the rest of his life would play out. He managed to finally find some escape near the end of 8th grade when he started playing basketball and getting in shape. He used the negativity as motivation to make a change in himself. He wanted to be confident enough to confront his bullies, teachers, and other peers when he returned to school and felt that his physical appearance was the first step. He spent every day running, lifting weights, swimming, shooting hoops, and playing guitar. He loved the music, the dancing, and the performances. It was during this time when he finally started to figure out who he was. He wrote about the pain and frustrations that he had been carrying with him. I think what he said next really caught us all by surprise.

"Even after all of the bad things I've endured over the years, nothing was as difficult as telling my mom that I was gay."


Though he debated not telling his mother because of her ill-health, he worried that he would later regret it and chose to come her about 5 months before she died. His mother came from a very old-school Christian way of life and even in her cancer-weakened state, she made it very clear to her son that this was not a lifestyle that was acceptable. She spent her last days sick in bed, ridiculing him for being gay. She stopped calling him by name and referred to him only by offensive gay slurs like "homo" and her "faggot son." No matter how it affected her health, she would not allow him to assist her in showering herself (which he had previously done multiple times a week for over two years), insisting that he was sexually corrupt and would likely molest her. The day before she passed away, she told him that their family legacy would die with her because she did not want a homosexual on their family tree.

After being bullied by everyone in his life, including his mother, he decided to fight back. He used his optimism to push through the negativity that surrounded him and take a stand against bullying. He stood up there and talked about his experience with bullies in middle school and from his mother like they were old, healed battle scars. It was amazing to see his transformation after only 6 short months. He talked about journals he read of teens who'd taken their lives as a result of the bullying they received at school and how he wanted to be a voice for them. He ended by saying that if he only stops one person from saying one negative thing to another person, he would consider that telling his story was a success.

I hope that repeating it now will yield the same success.

As Ellen would say "Be kind to one another."

Redefining "Victory"

Winning motivates. The thought of being the first to cross the finish line can push people to do the unachievable. When you're in competition for something, the desired outcome is obvious and when you achieve your goal, praise and admiration will surely follow. However, more often than not, you aren't competing in a race or a high stakes poker game. Victories aren't always obvious which seems silly to say but its true. No one is waiting to give you a gold star when you get your favorite parking spot but that doesn't mean you shouldn't celebrate it. Some times you have to create your own victories in order to motivate yourself. Depending on where you are in life, the victories may also have to adjust. For instance, for a struggling young married couple, a small victory could be as simple as paying the electric bill in full. However a recently graduated med student's victory may be getting their first residency.

One of the lowest points of my life came about 4 months into my 6 month chemo regiment. I had tried several different drugs, been in and out of the hospital, and started visits with an in-home nurse, but nothing seemed to kill the pain and nausea. The drugs for pain made me nauseated, the nausea medicine made me constipated, and constipation medicine made me nauseated. I often couldn't keep down the medicine to treat my nausea because I couldn't go more than 20 minutes or so without throwing it back up. I did thankfully get to familiarize myself with suppositories which proved to be a humiliating waste of time. Not only was this pattern frustrating but it was tiring, discouraging, and very uncomfortable.

Most weeks my chemo symptoms would land me in the hospital 3-5 days every other week. Hooking up to IV seemed to be the only way to keep my vomiting and pain level at a relatively comfortable level. Even going to to the hospital wasn't a relief. I felt chained to hospital bed watching people come and go, carrying on with their lives as usual. I felt like I was just withering away into the bed sometimes not being able to eat food for a few days at a time.

When I was able to tough it out and stay home, it was a much more depressing story. These were the times I came very familiar with what we fondly named "The Puke Chute." Thank the Lord Almighty for this little invention.

Not unlike a hospital, my house was littered with stacks and stacks of these little babies. I even considered investing in a few dispensers at one point. I had to lay flat on my back without pillows, in my bed without moving. I kept one near my bed at all times in case I chose to engage in any one of strenuous activities such as rolling over, tilting up my head on a pillow to watch TV, get up to go to the bathroom, cough or sneeze, drink, eat, or think about eating. I would also have to do this without any pain medication because the pain pills would make me to vomit causing even more pain.I would stare up at the ceiling and listen to the television, waiting for Carley to get home from work with Starbucks oatmeal; 1 of 3 not-totally-nausiating meals for me at the time. Even the slightest move would prompt another puke chute which was twisted up and placed in a trash can at my bedside, to be emptied at 1:00pm each day when Car returned home.

I very rarely had the urge for #2 but I dreaded the moment I felt the need to pee. I'd grab a chute and head to the bathroom in case I couldn't make it to my back up pile next to my toilet. I mastered the art of vomiting and peeing simultaneously in no time at all but not all at once. More often than not, the heaving from throwing up my instant breakfast would cause me to start peeing before I was ready. I sat down, a little humiliated, and finished my business, changed my urine-soaked underwear and sweatpants, and headed back to lay in bed.

Nighttime was the absolute worst. Carley was working 4:00am - 1:00pm regularly and we usually lay together in bed the rest of the day and went to bed by 9:00pm. I was always freezing. I would bundle up in several blankets, a hoodie, beanie, and sweatpants to try to keep me warm. She would wake me up in the middle of the night when she reached over and felt me soaking through my sweatshirt and the first layer of blankets. Because I was still so cold, I would have to get up, peel off my clothes and jump into a scalding hot shower. When I returned to the bedroom, she would have changed my pillow cases, sheets, and blankets, and fallen back to sleep only to wake up one more time to do it again before leaving the house at 3:30am. For 6 months, we probably slept through the entire night 4 or 5 times.

Between the small food intake and all this time in bed my legs got really weak. I usually camped in my bedroom but on some of my better days, I ventured downstairs to the living room. It took all of my strength to pull my body up the stairs using the handrail and sometimes resorting to climbing up them on my hands and knees. Walking down the stairs was a piece of cake but the fear of having to climb them again kept me from frequenting my trips downstairs.

One particular day, I woke up very early in the morning and I was feeling pretty good. To make sure that the good feeling didn't wear off, I lit up a joint and smoked it down. I had started smoking pot to curb some of nausea symptoms I was having and it was working. No matter what pain or anti-nausea pills the doctors shoved down my throat, NOTHING made me feel as much relief as when I smoked. It was just the courage I needed to head down to the kitchen to cook up some instant oats. The first 3 or 4 steps went pretty smoothly but when I put my foot down on the 5th step my knee gave out and I went hurling down the stairs, head over feet and crashed into the wall on the bottom landing. I quickly realized that I was home alone. I began to cry. I hurt on every inch on my body and the fall had instantaneously killed the buzz from my doobie. I soaked myself in tears as I lay on the landing crumpled in the fetal position for several minutes before attempting to move. I finally managed to sit myself up and lean back against the wall. I felt like the light at the end of the tunnel had just went out. I couldn't imagine that life could get any worse than this exact moment.

Needless to say, at this moment, it was a little difficult to "see the good in things."

So, I found that to stay positive I would have to find ways to celebrate my own victories. I knew that if i continued to guage my current success on my abilities before I started chemo, that I would never be able to match up and therefore would always feel like a failure. I was much weaker and unable to do some of the things that regularly would require little effort. I remembered an Albert Einstein quote I'd seen in the "Quoteable Quotes" section of a Reader's Digest in my grandparents' bathroom a few years prior.

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”

I thought about that for a second and I even managed to find a little victory in my current situation. I mean, I did make it downstairs after all, and to be honest, I got down there much faster than if I would have hobbled down each step individually. Even further, if I hadn't been slowed down by the crash into the wall, I might have even finished microwaving my  oats and crawled back up into bed in record time. I laughed a little, spun around on my butt, slid down the last 3 steps, opened the cupboard under the stairs, and enjoyed a few hits from the pipe I had stashed down there.

It was a huge turning point for me. Instead of striving for the typical goals that one would aim for like pay increases, new cars, buying a home, or graduating college my victories were celebrated each hour I went without throwing up, days when I had regular bowel movements, successful IV stick in 3 or less attempts, or managing to stay out of the hospital for an entire chemo cycle. I started to write about my experiences and published my struggles online. The more I reported my progress and my success at handling my symptoms, the easier it was to celebrate because everyone was celebrating with me. The light in the tunnel had reilluminated a bit and things were looking up. I obviously wasn't looking at a cake walk but this made it a little easier to keep my chin up when the road got rough.

Here are some ways to ensure you celebrate a victory every day.

#WINNING

• Your favorite song comes on the radio.
• When you go to the grocery store and your total is exact change i.e. $10.00.
• McDonald's runs their "Every size drink for $1" promotion.
• Spice up your signature. Turn writing checks into signing autographs.
• Score! Front row parking!
• Being served the first cup of coffee from a freshly brewed pot.
• Seeing a kitten or puppy, especially a fluffy one.
• You buy one and get one free.
• Dexter, Friends, or Gilmore Girls reruns on TV when there is nothing else to watch.
• Brad and Angelina add another ethiopian orphan.
• Good hair days.
• Rainbows and/or double rainbows on an otherwise gloomy day.
• You get a retweet from a celebrity.
• Finding your favorite dvds in the bargin bin
• Tad Hamilton extreme makes over another home.
• Someone "likes" your status. Multiple likes = multiple celebrations.
• Overhearing someone say something nice about you when they don't know you're listening.
• Runing into an old friend.
• Finishing all the laundry before you'd planned
• 11:11
• Seeing the asshole speeding through traffic getting pulled over a few miles ahead.
• Finding an old picture that reminds you of an event you'd forgotten about.
• Another 1st Lady outshines her husband. (You'll probably get more celebrations from this one than you'd expect.)

thanks for listening! Stay tuned.

Ghost Story

I have hesitated to write about this memory until now because I want to be able to give it the justice it deserves. This is one of the most hilarious and terrifying experiences of my life. I can promise you that it is 100% TRUE.

-----

Growing up LDS (Mormon), it was not uncommon to have a foreign face in Sunday School. Our Young Women's class was often filled with granddaughters, cousins, and friends of other Church members who were dropped off while their mothers and grandmothers attended Relief Society. They were usually fairly quiet, polite, and enjoyable but rarely frequented and even more rarely, joined permanently. We were a very tight knit group of about 10 girls that had been friends since we were little sunbeams sporting our one-size-fits-all CTR rings at four years-old and we liked it that way.

I did not care much for this new girl. She was definitely stealing my thunder. She came out of nowhere and everyone seemed to know her and love her. I didn't go to the same school as my church friends yet no one had cared to introduce us. I felt it appropriate to ignore her and let her know that she was not yet significant enough for me to introduce myself. I felt pretty good about this. She would definitely know that these were my friends and that her presence here was of no consequence to me. 

Unfortunately, when we split into our Sunday school classes, we were forced to sit next to each other. I discovered that her name was Joan and that she went to school with the other girls but had come with Lyzz, a friend of mine who had recently joined the church. I had just gotten used to the idea of adding Lyzz's face to our entourage and I could tell that Joan was ready to join the ranks.

As Murphy's Law states: Anyone you find severely annoying will most definitely want to be best friends with you.

After you've made the informed decision to hate someone, everything they do from that point forward, is irritating. The fact that they are chewing gum, have their nails painted, or not painted, have curly hair, wear jean jackets (when normally you love jean jackets), somehow become deal breakers. I could feel myself being unreasonable but I didn't let it stop me. I was due for a good rant for some time now and this was proving to be the perfect outlet.

When the teacher asked for a volunteer to write things on the board, everyone's new favorite Sunday School guest was selected. That is when everything changed. She was left handed. Left handedness is a total tell for me. I love left handed people, all of them. 

I could tell that we were going to be very, very good friends.  

--------- ( Represents a major gap in time) ---------

Joan had recently purchased the Volvo which was amazing. It really did justice to that moment in everyone's life when they get to stop relying on their parents for rides. We had a car. But no money for gas.

I started working at an old western hamburger restaurant, Calamity Jane's, with my older brother, Mike shortly after I turned 15. I had moved to Sandy and was living with Grandma and Grandpa full time. Mike put in a good word for me and it landed  me a job washing dishes, side by side. I had always looked up to my brother so as far as I was concerned, this was the life. I'd never really made money on the regular and it was awesome. In addition to the largely rewarding $150 dollar paychecks every other week, I was walking out of work each day with a full tank's worth of tips. Life had never been sweeter.

There were many perks to being a Dishwasher, however there were a few set backs. Every night in the dish room was a triathlon. Lifting, Running, Swimming.  Speed and strength were key.

The burger joint we washed for used cast iron skillets and glass beer mugs to increase the authenticity of their western motif. After coming out of the sanitizer, we lifted each scalding pan into stacks of 10 to 15 and moved them to the shelf to dry. After 10 minutes or so, the Washer would move the stacks of 15 iron skillets through the kitchen, pass the servers station, lift the drawer and put the stack inside, pushing them forward for the cooks to use as serving dishes again. This was usually repeated about 10 times as quickly as possible to get back to the conveyor belt of mounting dishes.

Speed starts to play in when dishes fly into the backroom from the dining room. Scrub brushes and gloves only prove to be obstacles in your race against the clock. Plates of half eaten hamburgers, french fries, and piles of mashed potatoes and gravy were swept from plates by hand, sprayed with water, thrown in the rack and shoved through the sanitizer. To a trained eye, if you looked in at our dish room on a busy night with two experienced dishwashers, it was a beautifully organized assembly line of cleanliness.

If you were unlucky enough to land the closing shift, you were given a few extra tasks, only suited for the best Dishwashers. Unfortunately this night, I was the lucky one. Closing down the dish room consisted of washing all of the days pots, pans, and plastic food storage containers. It usually took around 30 minutes, elbow deep in dirty dishwater. Last, but not least, was The Broiler.

The Broiler was and big silver metal sheet that sat underneath the broiler and stretched about 3 feet long and 2 feet wide. It was afforded the task of catching the grease drippings from all the burgers of the day. On a Saturday, the entire tray was crusted with red and gray grease lumps stuck in every crevice. The best part was the mountain of grease piled up along the middle of the tray. It was usually about a foot long and 4 to 6 inches wide and piled 4 inches high. It is brought in at around 300 degrees F, still bubbling in the center. The Dishwasher must use the largest spatula possible to scoop the majority of the grease pile into the trash. When enough is removed to prevent the drain from clogging, it is sprayed down with scalding hot water. When the scent of burnt grease and stale burgers permeate the area in a cloud of steam, you know you're ready to start scrubbing. Only metal SOS pads will do. The crunchy parts along the side were usually the easiest to remove and were saved for last. After scraping off the last crispy beef remains and the water stops beading off the surface of the tray, it is returned to the kitchen and it is time to clean the floors and go home.

The mats in the kitchen are 5 feet long and 2 feet wide. They are big, heavy rubber mats with holes in them soaked in day old dish water. They must be rolled up to fit in the sanitizer and washed three times. After using the mop to mix some soapy water with the dirty water all over the floor already, they are returned to the floor, and you are done for the evening.

I called Joan late after I got off work. She was already on her way over. I desperately needed a shower. Greasy dishwater coated my hands and arms up to the elbows not dissimilar to what you would expect if you were attempting to make wax molds of your arms. My shirt was rigid as if it were a top made of plastic fitted for a manikin. By the time Joan showed up, I'd finished showering and the hot water had helped to melt the grease from my arms and hair and I scrubbed the left over food from face and neck. I was feeling pretty exhilarated. It was almost midnight but we were feeling pretty adventurous so we decided to do something...crazy. I had about $27 in tips so naturally the world was our oyster. There was only one thing standing in our way; the Volvo's radio hadn't been working for the last few weeks. I grabbed the boom box, 4 D size batteries, three of our favorite CD's, a roll of duct tape and we were on our way.

Carley was staying in The Dalles with a family friend while she worked on cherry farm for the summer. It was almost 1:00 when we called to tell her we were making the drive out there. She woke up her "foster parents" and they said it was cool if we came over. We strapped the boom box to the dashboard with the duct tape and hit the road. I-84 to The Dalles is long, straight, and not well lit. This late at night, there were absolutely no cars around. We flew through the night with the sunroof open letting in the cool Oregon summer night. Hands up to the stars, dancing and singing to our favorite tunes, nothing but the road and the radio, as Kenny would say.

We were cruising along in the left lane (which bothered me because I am a strong believer in only using the left lane to pass) for quite some time. We had calmed down a little and the initial thrill of the spontaneity of it all had worn off a touch. It was very dark and huge rock formations on the right hand side of the freeway cast a shadow, even in darkness of the summer night. It was only two lanes on both sides and on the left of the highway was the river. It was dark and calm, reflecting the moon light on a rarely clear night. The only light on the roadway were the Volvo's headlights beaming out in front of us. We both stared ahead, in silence, listening, thinking that maybe the road trip was a little hasty when everything changed.

The lanes are separated by a large concrete median. They are tall enough to stop a car but not tall enough to block your view of the opposing traffic lane. I squinted as an object began to appear in the headlights a few hundred feet ahead. My eyes opened in terror when I realized what I was seeing. At the same instant, even before I could make a sound, Joan slammed on her brakes, screeching to a halt and we both shrieked out loud.

"Oh my gosh, Oh my gosh, Oh my gosh, Oh my gosh, Oh my gosh, Oh my gosh!!!!" We screamed over each other before we could come to vocalize what we had seen. We instantly looked behind us, hoping to see some evidence that what we had just seen was real. There was nothing there. No animal, pot hole, no large rock, no nail, no piece of glass, no human.

"YOU JUST HIT A GUY!!!" I yelled. I knew even as I said it aloud that it wasn't true.

"You saw it too??" Joan asked, terrified. We knew what we had seen. But what we saw, could not be real. We began putting together the details of what happened.

Before when i narrowed my eyes more and more, I saw a man between 50-60 years old, he had white facial hair and wore a long gray jacket and hat. He looked straight ahead across the highway, climbed over the concrete median, and walked into traffic. It was the same instant when we drove right into him. Joan slammed on her breaks and we both braced ourselves for the impact of his body crunching against the front of the car. It never came.  We looked around us and behind us for any sign that there had been impact or a body but couldn't find anything. There was no damage to the front end of the Volvo. The craziest part was, before I could show any indication that I had seen the man walk in front of us, Joan had already slammed on her brakes and began to scream out at the horror that was about the befall us. She had seen the exact same man walking into the highway. I know exactly what I saw that night. The old man that walked out into the freeway was as clear a figure in the road as Joan was sitting next to me.

I will swear to the end of my life that this was the day we ran through a ghost.

My Caring Bridge Entries

During the time I was undergoing Chemo, I felt some comfort from the blogs I wrote on my Caring Bridge page. If anyone is interested, Here are the entries:

Thanks for the views!

http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/juliapeer

High School Blues

I can't remember the exact details of how we became friends. All I know is when we started, we couldn't stop. Sam, Cyndi, and I were as inseparable as any three friends could be. We did everything together, shopped, talked on the phone, attended sporting events, and even worked on homework assignments together. Our families came to realize that dinner guests were inevitable at least two times a week.

During our junior year, Cyndi and I were single but we did have to share some Sam's time with her boyfriend. We did so reluctantly because he wasn't my #1 fan and we learned to deal with it. One of the things that brought us closer was helping Sam through the ups and downs of their relationship.

The summer after our trio formed was also the summer that Carley and I met at camp. I was a practicing member of the LDS (Mormon) church and she came that year with a friend of mine, Kelsey. (I guess it isn't fair to say that Kelsey and I were friends at that time. She was friends with a group of my friends that attended another ward nearby. Because I was friends with her entire clique and she and I had never really spoken, I automatically assumed she hated me.)

---

The first essay in my first class of my senior year was to write about someone who has made an impact in my life. I went over the usuals, grandma, grandpa, Hillary Clinton. I decided to write about Carley. We had spent the summer getting pretty close. We hadn't started persuing anything resembling a relationship at this time but I knew that she was special and one way or another, she was making an impact on my life.

Other than Sam and Cyndi, I had honestly always felt like I didn't belong. I was the kind of awkward kid who everyone likes and thinks is funny but never fit in any specific clique. I wrote a paper about how she made me feel like I belonged and I finally felt that after years of hollow friendships, I had someone I could count on and confide in. I got a perfect score on the paper and was quite proud with the work I had done. I shoved securely somewhere in the bottom of my locker and moved on.

As the months passed, Carley and I started spending more and more time together.  Its no foreign story to any friend who's best friend starts a new relationship. Mine is a little different in the fact that I was a mormon teen who was semi-experimenting with a same-sex relationship. All I wanted was to tell by best friends what was happening with Carley.

Partially because I didn't know what was happening but also because I was terrified of anything between me and my two favorite homies would change, I didn't tell either of them what I was going through. It put a serious strain on our friendship. It really was a horrible time for me. I was so happy on one hand but on the other I was distancing myself from everyone else in my life. I felt like every minute I spent with Sam or Cyndi I was lying to them. I was so confused and had no one to talk about it with other than Carley who was obviously equally as confused. To help ease my guilt, I I began to spend less and less time with my two best friends.

Walking toward my locker, that I shared with Sam, one afternoon, she came walking toward me looking somewhat flustered.

"What the fuck is this, Julia?! I found it in the bottom of our locker!" she shouted, referencing the paper I had written a few months earlier. She flipped it open to the second page and read from the page "She [Carley] is the first person to who I feel like I can count on. In my life I have been surrounded by adults who often fail to offer encouragement as well as shallow, cookie-cutter friendships that have proven useless as advocates of support." She looked up, accusingly, and said "Nice to know you think I'm a shallow friend." She threw the paper at my feet and walked away.

I was totally speechless which is not common for me. I picked the paper up off of the ground and walked a few feet away to our locker. I stood there  next to her, hanging my head, as she knelt in front of the locker and filled up her backpack. I want to make it very clear that I have never felt romantically about Sam but that doesn't mean that I don't love her. As friends, we don't make any sense because we are exact opposites. It killed me to see how much I had hurt her and even worse that I had made her feel that our friendship wasn't important to me. How could I tell her that our friendship and the paper I wrote had nothing to do with one another without having to explain the differences in the two relationships?

 "I'm sorry," I whispered. She stood up, slammed the locker shut, and walked away down the hall.

A Wrench in the Works

You have to understand that I've been writing my life story for my whole life. It isn't easy for me and is even more difficult to share my writing. With that being said, I really do appreciate any feedback.

Here is an excerpt, enjoy.

--

...I think that one of the most intense moments in my life came about 5 days after I was originally admitted to the hospital.

Even writing about this experience right now has my blood pumping hot through my veins causing my hands to clumsily slide all over my keyboard. Having to put my head back into this period in my life is very intense and involves a lot of emotion.

To really understand the gravity of the situation, I'll have to take you back to that first week before I  thought I would end up in the hospital in the first place. I had been having kidney pains for a week or so and was reluctant to let Carley know about it. I had previously had a kidney infection that was seriously painful and I didn't want her to worry.

Mistake #1.

Finally the pain had become to much to bear. It was a horrible piercing pain in my left kidney and I knew something was not normal. I was annoyed to have to go to Urgent care in the first place to wait in the Vicodin scented lobby, take my clothes off, pee in a cup, put my clothes back on, wait, get antibiotics, and spend the next two weeks fighting nausea because I continually take my medicine before eating food. To add to the stress, I had recently been fired from my job and didn't have any kind of insurance to cover what was likely to be a half million dollar doctor visit, not to mention the prescriptions. My brother, Jacob, was over and he and Carley managed to shove me in his tiny Mustang and he drove me to Urgent care. I fell out onto the pavement immediately after we arrived, thankful we had made the 2 mile drive alive. It was Friday at about 8:00pm, just under an hour before closing, and the nurses looked annoyed as we entered in the lobby.

Paperwork. Paperwork. Paperwork. Give ID. Answer questions about not having insurance. Tell them about getting fired. Answer questions about payment options. Answer questions about income. Paperwork. Wince from pain in kidney. Hate that the receptionist thinks I'm faking it. "On a scale from 1 to 10 what is your pain level?" Wait. Watch fuzzy National Geographic documentary on TV. Laugh about it with Jake. Wait. Find Things in Highlights. 

"The doctor will see you now."

Now, I don't think that I could possibly pick this doctor out of a lineup. The visit seemed so innocent to me and being the medical expert that I was, I was certain of exactly what would happen. I'd be in and out in 20 minutes with antibiotics and pain meds, back to working order in a day or two. So... I peed, came back to the room, read magazines and shot the breeze with Jake while we waited for the doctor. His news was the first curve ball.

"Well, Julia. It seems like your kidneys look fine. The results on your urinalysis came back clear and shows no signs of infection. I want to prescribe you some pain medicine for the weekend and come back Monday for an ultrasound. Because you don't have insurance, and ultrasound at the clinic across the street will be far less expensive than if you go through the Emergency Room. Just come back here to Urgent Care on Monday morning and I will have the orders written up for the exam so you can head straight to the image center."

The weekend proved to be nothing more than a blur of TV shows, kidney pain, Vicodin, and falling in and out of sleep. By Sunday morning I had burned through every one of my pain pills and was starting feel some serious pain again in the lower left side of my back. I was very concerned that I could not afford the tests in the Emergency and spend the entire day doing whatever possible to ease the crippling burning sensation in my back. 

After an uneasy night of sleep, I woke up Monday morning with a sense of hope that this pain issue would be resolved. Arriving at Urgent care about 2 minutes after they opened their doors, I was surprised to hear that the nurse could not find record of any orders for a patient with my name. It was even more disconcerting to discover that there was no record of my coming to the clinic at all the Friday before. 

"If you need immediate relief for your pain, you may want to consider going to the Emergency Room," the annoyed nurse suggested. I was livid. I spent all day Sunday writhing in pain to avoid the cost of a visit to the emergency room and now I was being sent there anyway. 

When I explained this situation to the nurse at the counter, she said that the doctor was not working but she could try to contact him to verify the orders for the Ultrasound. She also informed me that this would consist of alerting him on a pager and he could respond within 2-4 hours.

To expedite the process, we just left Urgent Care and headed to the emergency room. I was admitted fairly quickly and finally received some pain relief from the I.V. After another urinalysis, the doctor decided to run a CT scan to check on my kidneys because there is no other sign of infection.

It was pretty early in the morning and after the scan Carley and I sat together in the tiny little room in silence together. I was only fairly aware of what was happening to me (drugged) but I was very aware that Carley was nervous. I don't know how long we sat there with the faint sound of Roseanne reruns in the background but it seemed like forever. Finally the doctor pulled back the curtain and appeared with a clipboard. He looked serious but somewhat confused, possibly uncomfortable.

"Your kidneys are fine. There is no inflammation or infection. However, it looks like you may have Lymphoma."

I had no idea what he just said.

With very little hesitation, he continued, "We are getting a room ready for you on the 5th floor," he paused and looked at me over his glasses, "that's the cancer floor." He glanced back over to his clipboard, flipping through the same three pages, likely hoping to find a sheet of paper with suggestions on bedside manner. Apparently not finding what he was looking for, he added, "If you have any questions, they will be able to answer them once you get up to your room upstairs." He tucked the clipboard under his arm an disappeared once again behind the curtain.

"Well, shit." I said, or something equally as brilliant. I looked over at Car who had already stood up and was standing by my bed. I grabbed her hand. I didn't know what to say. The nurse gave us the sheet for the room I would be moving to and had be sign some billing responsibility paperwork. She informed us that someone would be along shortly to move me, in my bed, to my new PERMANENT room.

"Car, call my Grandma and call your Mom. I need someone here that knows more about what is going on." She piled all of our belongings onto my hospital bed, kissed me gently on the forehead, and walked outside to make the calls.

The next thing I remember was a day later. I had been moved to a room upstairs. I remember it being very homey. Flowers and balloons and a LOT of pictures of my friends and family. Oh wait, never mind, those are my family members. They look a lot different though my dilaudid glasses. I ask Carley, stationed faithfully in a chair near my bed, to hand me my real glasses. It helps to pull the faces out of the frames but weirdly they don't look that familiar. I had to open and close my eyes several times before I began to recognize the people littered around my room. My kidney was still a little painful and I asked Carley to push the button on my pain medicine pump. That was the end of that day.

--

A few days passed with people coming and going and offering help and laughter. We met several different doctors all of who said that I had what looked like "Lymphoma." We assumed that this was a form of cancer based from our stay on the "Cancer Floor" but it was never officially confirmed by anyone that we met. I think that this was the most difficult part of this phase. Confusion and worry was causing a lot of tension for all of our friends and family.

Scan. Meet surgeon. Biopsy. Meet new doctor. Worry. Move rooms, across the hall. Scan. Meet with new doctor.

After I had adjusted a little bit to the effects of the dilaudid, I finally was able to tune in to what was going on. The visitors had started to settle down by the 5th day we were in the hospital. It was late in the evening and the room was vacant and quiet. Because we had so many people coming to show their support (thank you, all) There were very few instances when I was awake, and Carley and I were alone. We hadn't talked about anything so far in any amount of detail.

Carley and I were watching the television and playing rummy alone when the doctor came in. I don't remember her name or what she looked like but this was the first doctor to offer us an official diagnosis after my biopsy. The three of us sat solemnly together as she gave us the news.

"Hodgkin's Lymphoma. The cancer affects lymph nodes located throughout the body. Your scans show that your lymph nodes up and down your abdomen and neck are primarily affected. The pain in your kidney is a result of an enlarged lymph node swollen to 4x its regular size and it is pressing up against your kidney. Chemo therapy will be our next course of action. Your regular oncologist will be here tomorrow to talk to you about this next step."

She walked out leaving shock and silence to fill the room behind her.

Even though much of this time is foggy and jumbled, what happened next will always be etched perfectly in my memory. Carley closed the door and walked back to my bed. I lifted my blankets, shifted to the right and lifted my left arm. Carley crawled in beside me and buried her head in my neck. We laid together only seconds before we both began to cry. I closed my eyes as the room seemed to grow larger and the two of us shrank down to only a small speck on the ground. Enormous IV tubes, syringes, and prescription bottles filled the room as we lay tiny and helpless on the bed. I was too terrified to open my eyes for several minutes. I pressed my lips gently against her forehead again and again hoping to find a sense of relief in the whirlwind of information we were foraging through.

"Can you die from this?" she whispered to me.
"I really don't know."


[The next excerpt (in chronological order) is The Ugly Truth Pt. 1 followed by The Ugly Truth Pt. 2 Click the links to be redirected to the other excerpts.]